[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published April 15, 2020] ©2020
My last two columns have been about the early days of my relationship
with my first husband, Fred. We divorced in 1983, and now that he is ailing
(not covid-19), we have found ourselves reconnecting on a more positive plane
and reviewing our marriage with a different eye. I’m actually glad to have the
opportunity.
Marriage, I learned long ago, gives you not so much a helpmate as a
scapegoat. I actually got my first exposure to this concept before I even
married Fred but I was too enamored of his handsome body, quick mind, and
potential earning power to pay attention.
During our engagement Fred was living in a medical school dormitory on
a sub-subsistence budget and one of the ways he economized was to do all of his
laundry – darks, whites, and in-betweens – in one load. Part of the problem
was that even standing on the machine lid, it’s tough to get an entire months’
laundry in one small machine. I lived in my own college dorm some 60 miles
away.
“Fred,” I used to say at the time, “there is no room in there for the
water. And the stuff that is sticking out of the top if not going to get
clean.”
‘Nonsense,” said Fred, the perennial optimist. “As soon as the lower
stuff gets wet, it’ll sink down, and with a little brute force…” He’d then
unhook a dispenser of that nasty green liquid hand soap that was hanging on the
wall next to the sink and pour it in.
Every month, Fred’s wardrobe descended into deeper shades of gray until
he heard about an inexpensive laundry nearby where a little old man would run
the clothes through the machine for you and even fold them up afterward. (Fred
was never much on folding.) He decided to try it.
When the little old man dumped out Fred’s clothes on the counter, his
face registered disbelief. “Who does your laundry?” he asked finally.
Fred didn’t bat an eyelash. “She does,” he said, pointing to me.
The next day when we went back to pick it up, the little old man shook
his head at Fred. “If you haven’t married this girl yet, I wouldn’t,” he
said. “It took me three washes to get it clean and in the process, all the
staples fell out. Did you know that’s how she mends your clothes?”
“Staples?” I said in disbelief.
“Fortunately, she has a nice personality,” said Fred.
If there is one universal truth about brides-to-be, it is their ability
to ignore all warning signs about a future spouse. The laundry saga should
have been a hint. Ultimately Fred moved from his dorm with a roommate to a tiny
apartment that I don’t think was ever cleaned once.
The night before Fred had to be out of that apartment the May that he
graduated from medical school, I stopped by and noticed that he hadn’t even
started to pack, never mind that there were piles of dirty dishes and pots in
the sink –two weeks’ worth at least. And I said, “Fred, how are you going to
be out of here by tomorrow?” And he told me not to worry.
And sure enough, the next morning, he showed up at my parent’s home in
New Jersey with a carload of boxes to store in our very damp airless basement
for the summer until our marriage in the fall. The whole summer, every time my
father went down to the basement he said, “What’s that funny smell?” And when
we get married in September and loaded all his boxes in the station wagon, the
terrible odor followed us for three hundred miles up the New York Thruway.
When we got to our newlywed apartment near the hospital where Fred was
doing his internship, I started unpacking the boxes. Inside were all the dirty
dishes and pots and pans, still unwashed! The mold was so thick I was at first
unable to even identify the contents, such was the growth of fungi on three-month-old
tomato sauce. I confronted Fred with the evidence.
“Wow,” said Fred, “You really shouldn’t store stuff in your basement.
Way too humid down there.”
Probably we married each other for all the wrong reasons. At the time,
I was attracted to Fred for his cool composure under pressure and his
assertiveness, not to mention a myriad of other qualities. He said he was
initially attracted to me for my warmth and vulnerability. Describing those
same characteristics when we separated, I called Fred “cold and controlling”
and he called me a “neurotic psycho.” I’ve also heard it said that if people
stay married, it is for different reasons than they originally married one
another for. At the time of our divorce, Fred and I agreed that he’d had enough
of my vulnerability and I’d had enough of his assertiveness to last a lifetime.
I can't say I didn't have plenty of warning. The photos below were taken for the 1981 TV show "Hour Magazine" hosted by Gary Collins for a segment called "How to live with a slob."
Fred's armoire, 1981
Fred's closet, 1981
Bottom of Fred's closet, 1981
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